


Weight

by Oparu



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>short written for a hurt/comfort meme on tumblr. "I'll carry you, hold still or it'll hurt more."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight

She’s easier to carry before she returns to consciousness. She’s heavier as dead weight, but once she starts to stir, it slices into him how she struggles for breath. May squirms, not remembering where she is, and she starts to slip from his arms, trying to escape in case he’s not a friend.

Before he can speak, she shoves off from him, knocking herself free. He moves fast enough to help protect her head from the rocky ground, but she lands hard on her knees, which takes the breath from her lungs. May gasps, sucking in enough air to moan. He drops his hands to her shoulders.

“You got too close to a concussion grenade. I think you’ve damaged some of ligaments in your knees, wrists- you hit the wall pretty hard.”

She can’t speak yet, her breath is too uncontrolled, too sharp.

“I’ll carry you, hold still or it’ll hurt more.”

Melinda's glare burns into him because he can see through her front. She hit that rock wall hard enough to knock her unconscious, which means a concussion on top of her other injuries. He helps her off her knees, off her wrists, and then she’s in his lap, leaning against him while she tries to stop from making a sound. She hisses, but there’s a moan in the back of her throat. 

“It’s less than a click to the Bus. Simmons can patch you up. You’ll be fine.”

It takes three shallow breaths for her to speak, and tears leave trails in the dirt on her face. “I know.”

“Then let me carry you, May.”

She shuts her eyes, then opens them in surrender. He guides her arms around his neck, shifts his feet so he can return to his feet and hold her. He has to hold her close to his chest, to keep her from moving. She struggles, resisting. At first he worries he’s hurting her, then her head rests against his neck. Her breathing starts to slow, to quiet out of the sharpness. He wishes he could take the pain from her, that it had been him to shove her out of the way instead of her putting herself between him, as she always does.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers. She doesn’t reply, perhaps she can’t. If he had her injuries, he’d probably be screaming.

“It’s not far. I can see the runway, May. It’s not far at all now.” Phil keeps talking, muttering useless platitudes because he needs to talk to her. He needs her to know she’s safe because he can’t heal her physical injuries. He’s never been able to, or needed to, because she puts herself back together.

She heals quickly.

He’s taken out her stitches, helped her shed casts from broken limbs and pulled bullets from her flesh. Phil’s never sure about her soul. Does she put herself in danger because she loves them all or because she’s still punishing herself for the lives she couldn’t save?

“It’s okay, Phil,” she murmurs: her voice a ruin. “I trust you.”


End file.
